


I, Captain of the Woodland Realm

by Imladris_Riven



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Gay, Gay Male Character, Gay Sex, Love/Hate, M/M, Master/Pet, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-02
Updated: 2015-03-18
Packaged: 2018-03-04 23:01:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3095816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Imladris_Riven/pseuds/Imladris_Riven
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Do not misunderstand me, captain: this is merely a whim. A decision to suck you dry until you beg me for more. That is all.” </p><p>Thranduil has a new pet. Unfortunately, he's holding said pet against his will. And the captain isn't too happy about it . . . or is he?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Burden

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own LOTR. I just have an unnatural obsession with Thranduil and his fabulous hair. I've also changed a few of Tolkien's creations to better suit my story.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nin lavan = "My Animal". This is a shortened version of Thranduil's pet name for the captain. The full one is "nín lavan athan i aear’ meaning “Animal Beyond The Sea”.

Thranduil's robes were different that day. A golden-crimson cloak that seemed to shimmer against his moonlight tunic.

“You know what becomes of those who defy me, captain. By death shall those who defy me be punished.” The King of Mirkwood's eyes, dark and piercing, bore into the captain's skull like a black arrow. “I have decreed that no-one may enter nor leave my kingdom unbidden. And yet your burden, she has breached my orders three moons hence and fled into the woods. Yet again.”

Prestalos shifted nervously under the king's scrutiny. Suddenly, his heart was racing and his palms had turned sweaty.

“Come here,” Thranduil commanded, beckoning Prestalos over with one long, effortlessly-curled finger.

As the captain approached the dais Thranduil slowly unfolded his legs, and left them gaping wide open beneath his robes. The captain gulped, his mouth suddenly dry, groin aching at the sight of his king in such a lewd position.

“While I do not admire your burden’s stupidity, as the Captain of the Woodland Realm I ask of you what you suppose to do about this?”

“Y-your Majesty . . . ?”

“Do not play dumb with me,” Thranduil drawled, waving his hand as if he were trying to swat an invisible fly. “Fetch your burden even if you have to drag her back. Idle fickleness shall not be tolerated in my kingdom, as I am sure _you_ of all people are aware of.”

Prestalos nodded and Thranduil grinned. He parted his lips as if to say something more, but then his son’s voice, like the calling of a bird, filled the Great Hall instead.

“I will go with him, father.” Thranduil watched his son approach through narrowed eyes; all the while drumming his fingertips irritably against his wooden throne. “We will ensure she is returned with not a single hair askew. I give you my word.”

Legolas paused at the foot of the throne where his father slumped carelessly. For a moment, the hall was silent as Thranduil studied his son. Then the king spoke and his voice filled the walls like wind through Rhovanion.

“Bring the elleth back with a head upon her shoulders – that much will suffice. As for the pack of orcs lingering by our borders, have them killed and impale their bodies as a reminder to any fool wishing to defile our gates. You have but three days.”

Legolas bowed and then left the Great Hall.

Meanwhile, however, the captain was stood awkwardly trying to conceal his swelling bulge. Thranduil noticed this and smirked again, like a wolf who had spotted its prey.

“Tell me, captain, how long has it been since I held you upon this throne?”

“F-forgive me, Your Majesty, I . . . I did not . . .”

“So you say,” Thranduil droned, staring directly at the captain’s erection, “and yet quite the show you are putting on. Kneel,” the king commanded, but Prestalos hesitated. Thranduil smiled. “I gave you a direct order. Believe me when I say I am in no mood for obstinate disloyalty. Now drop to your knees before I force you to myself.”

It was _that_ , thought Prestalos, that look of Thranduil's that made the his knees feel so weak and boneless. Thranduil’s cold, calculating eyes that could rip his foe asunder with a mere twist of his head.

Even knowing what the king was capable of, what he would do to Prestalos should he defy him again, the captain still hesitated. Still _fought_ him, just like he did the night he became the king’s pet.

In the moment Thranduil beckoned the captain to kneel by his feet, Prestalos searched for an excuse. A way to avoid the impending torment, but as always there was none. He’d learned the hard way that prolonging the inevitable only ever displeased the king even more.

Prestalos whimpered as he collapsed suddenly to his knees. The guards on duty around him glanced at him. Tears sprung furiously to his eyes . . . his friends, his companions, they would all see this. See the captain kneeling by the king like some lousy, pathetic little dog. And yet, there was nothing he could do about it. This was his life now.

Thranduil kicked his leather boot out and nudged the side of the captain’s face, turning it upward so he was forced to face him.

“Lick it.”

Prestalos obeyed and grabbed the leather boot, his tongue leaving a trail of saliva. The taste of polish was sharp on his tongue, bitter like venom, making him want to vomit.

A long time ago, never would the captain have imagined he’d be at the king’s mercy like this. So flightless. So compliant under his touch.

What irony it was to think that he’d no-one to blame but himself. _This_ was his fault. This was the deal. He was to be the king’s pet in exchange for Elentári's acceptance here in Mirkwood, and that was to be the end of it.

And besides, Thranduil had explained to him, serving as the king’s pet was merely a small price in comparison. Nevertheless, he willing to abide it since he was, after all, a most _gracious_ ruler. All Prestalos had to do was obey.

 _But he shall never have my heart_ , the captain swore to himself, as he bit back the urge to rip the boot from the king’s leg and ram it down his throat.

“Oh such anger, _nín lavan_ , burning in those eyes . . . A shame it will not help you. Now, remove my leggings for me too while you are down there. Easy now,” Thranduil tutted, looking deep into the captain's eyes that glared up at him. “Use only your teeth.”

Prestalos scowled at his king one last time, before silently obeying his command.

Inside, however, he felt hideously aroused as his teeth yanked open the drawstrings and tugged Thranduil's leggings below his waist. Despite his berating, his cock immediately responded to Thranduil’s bared flesh, so toned and exposed beneath his lips. Yet, be that as it may, with the arousal came the all too familiar feeling of disgust, and Prestalos scowled again.

Why, when every nerve in his body begged for him to run, had he no control over his reaction? Such simple self-control? Prestalos often asked himself this but feel down already knew the answer. It was because in those moments of pure and utter ecstasy with the king, Prestalos was bound. He was ‘the king’s pet’, and sometimes, trapped and hidden behind the mirror that was his shattered soul, he even believed it. Enjoyed it.

“You know what to do,” Thranduil growled, glancing at the erection which tented the captain’s leggings. “Make me feel the wrath of that tongue before you dissipate into the woods.”

Prestalos paused, before making short work of the king’s weeping member. His tongue poked out, twirled and delicately struck the tip of Thranduil’s cock, causing the king to gasp and buck into Prestalos’ mouth.

“Yes, you have become so obedient, _nín lavan_. So warm . . . I have trained you well, have I not?”

Thranduil gripped the braid trailing down the captain’s back and twisted his fingers through it. Pulled. But Prestalos said nothing. His moist lips soon moved on to the king’s balls and his tongue, expertly trained, began teasing the taut flesh.

Thranduil, however, had other ideas.

He yanked the captain's lips away from his scrotum only to shove them back around his cock with greedy force. At that exact moment, Thranduil thrust even deeper down the captain’s throat, causing him to choke and clench his lips tighter around the king's cock. Clearly, Thranduil was not one known for gentleness. Hurriedly he forced entry into the captain's mouth, as he always did, and soon the captain surrendered and his lips began to welcome the intrusion. Devoured it. Inhaled, breathed. Practically licked it bone dry.

After a moment, he even glanced up at Thranduil through hooded eyes and was disgustedly aroused to see him reduced to such a state. Blonde hair disheveled over his shoulders. Lips slightly parted. Breath coming out in shallow gasps. Against his better judgement, Prestalos sucked even harder then, suddenly eager to please the king even more. He licked and kissed every inch of Thranduil’s cock as if it were smothered in honey, and for that moment he no longer fought it.

Especially not when a moan escaped from between Thranduil’s lips. That just encouraged him even more. Thranduil arched his spine against the wooden throne and tightened his hands into the captain’s hair. His legs began to twitch, his chest sounded like a drum in the captain’s ears, and then his mouth opened and his cock spurted his come all over the captain’s gloriously indignant face.

Thranduil chuckled and unlaced his hands from the captain’s hair. He reached out and trailed the stubborn jawline that jutted out to him, his mess spilling onto his fingertips.

Thranduil took no notice. If anything, the sight of the captain covered in his come only aroused him even more.

“Feel wary of your steps out there, _nín lavan_. The trees here are different from the ones you are likely familiar with. There are no Ents here to protect you anymore."

“I danced across the boughs of Fangorn Forest, _Your Majesty_.” Prestalos stood up, infuriated by his incessant arousal, and angrily wiped his mouth with the king’s proffered handkerchief. “Spiders do not scare me.”

“Then be swift, fetch your burden and bring her back to me alive.”

Prestalos bowed and then turned around, but before he disappeared from the dais completely, Thranduil called out to him.

“And you may keep that sullied handkerchief of mine, captain, but be quick. For I thirst for you even now while you are standing there right in front of me.”

* * *

Killing the orcs was easy. It was finding Elentári that proved to be difficult.

Prestalos departed immediately after Thranduil gave him his orders – well, almost immediately. After he'd cleaned himself up he hastened to the stables where he met Legolas and three of his men.

Sirion, his black stallion, was already set to go; packed and laden with his equipment and sword. Faron, the lieutenant and third to his command in the captain's company, was as cheerful as ever. The one thing the captain was thankful for that day.

The elves mounted their horses and one after the other they galloped into the woods. While trotting through the ever-present moss and gloom of Mirkwood, Faron sang of songs that Prestalos had never heard of before, and to him sounded more like Dwarf babble than anything else;

_‘The trees they whistle, the wind it sings_

_Up until the morning rings_

_The clouds they move, the sky it brightens_

_Up until the forest lightens_

_My horse she gallops, me stomach he rumbles_

_But a-ha, fear not, for lembas is in me bundles!’_

Legolas smiled at Prestalos, signalling him to join in, but the captain was never much of a singer. A horror that Woodelves couldn’t even begin to understand.

Eventually, Prestalos brought everyone to a halt. They’d reached an abandoned clearing in the middle of the woods, one often used for Mirkwood hunters out on their rounds. Prestalos dismounted Sirion and suggested they continued on foot. While the rest of them followed Legolas spotted what looked like a trail of orc blood splattered on a tree and went to inspect it.

“It is just Mirkwood sap, my lord; and nothing more,” Faron assured him, but Legolas tasted it all the same. Faron had too much of a weak stomach to assist him, not even when Legolas outstretched his finger and insisted that Faron tasted it to prove his point otherwise. The other elf had paled then, disgust written plainly across his face, and politely said he would happily stick to his miruvor instead.

They continued onward on foot, leaving the horses behind with fresh oats and barley. The elves, however, were still wary of intruders sniffing them out – even with the tree-husk Faron had so generously erected. Fortunately, Prestalos was able to invoke an incantation around the horses so they were hidden from prying eyes.

“I did not know you could do that,” Legolas commented when they began climbing the trees.

“Not many do, my lord,” Prestalos replied, quickly climbing the nearest bough to avoid inquisition. Telling Legolas it was his father who taught him magic was the last thing he needed. Especially since Prestalos had been hogtied at the time.

Up high on the canopy, sunlight bled through broken trees and shone radiantly in the captain’s hair. Hints of gold streamed through his dark-auburn locks, catching a loose strand that curtained the side of his face. Prestalos swept it away quickly and then danced from one bough to another, feeling more content than he had in a long time.

The trees . . . this is what made him feel happy. _Alive_. With full control over his mind and body. Not some king rendering his soul to pieces, nor the senseless pet bound by its callous master. Not even the young ellon who once sacrificed his body in exchange for Elentári's acceptance. Despite remnants of giant spider webs that clouded above him, the forest had become the one place Prestalos could feel at home.

Feel like _himself_ again.

Though his king commanded his body, his heart remained loyal to the contorted trees of Yavanna’s hair and limbs, and he knew that no king, no matter how powerful, would ever change that.

Faron whistled from below the captain, silencing the soldiers’ singing. Prestalos nodded and glanced back at Legolas, who’d already reached for his bow; his father’s sneer mirrored impeccably on his beautiful face. The orcs loomed but ten yards ahead of them, and the sight of them was like finding a canyon brimming with white gold and gems.

 _And their fire shall save us time for when we have to burn them_ , thought Prestalos, readying his sword. Faron whistled again, this time at the two archers, and the captain and Legolas began tiptoeing forward; every step laced with an excitement that Prestalos couldn’t even begin to fathom.

But the hunt ended all too soon.

“Not nearly enough than they deserved,” Faron spat, grabbing a headless orc and dumping it with the others. “Kills the fun when they don’t struggle like they used to.”

Prestalos wiped his sword clean with his cape and then turned around to where his companions stood, by the small fishpond embedded among two rowan trees.

“Faron, you will stay here and impale the bodies.” Prestalos grabbed his sword and slung his bag over his shoulder. “Risdar and Legolas, my lord, shall come with me to find Elentári. If we have not returned by tomorrow’s moonrise then send word to the king that we require reinforcements, though I am sure it shall not come to that.”

Faron stood up and put his hands on his waist, pretending to sulk like a child.

“Do you not think we should rest a while, captain?” Faron touched his knees, silencing their dramatic shaking, and grinned cheekily at the captain. “I am not sure about you, but my legs here are shaking so much so that I can hardly bear to stand!”

Prestalos laughed, a sound which caused Legolas to glance over at him in stunned silence.

“Your legs are always shaking, Faron,” Prestalos teased, handing Faron his flask. “Too much sugar from all the honey-cakes you eat.”

Faron took a swig of the miruvor, delighted to hear his captain joking again, and passed it back. The soldiers were only too pleased to offer Legolas some of theirs. Then the captain clapped Faron on the side of his shoulder, and left the rotting stench of orcs behind; the two blonde elves, Legolas and Risdar, followed eagerly in his wake.

Now the true hunting began.

* * *

 

The forest grew darker the deeper they ventured. Dead birds and rodents lay askew in the trees, trapped in branches and buried in holes in the ground as if for safe-keeping. As if someone . . . or _something_ out there was hoarding its prey until it returned. Prestalos had warned his men to be extra on their guard then, now that they’d picked up a scent they could neither taste nor fathom.

They moved onward cautiously and much to their relief, the longer they walked the stronger Elentári's scent became. But with every footfall dragged through the moss, the captain’s fears worsened; for if his apprehensions about his burden were well-founded, and that she really was secretly homing in on their enemy, then all hell would break loose. King Thranduil would stay true to his word and punish Elentári with a torment worse than death.

Siding the enemy – _any_ enemy, at that rate – was unforgivable regardless of an elf’s age. There would be no saving her from the king's wrath should she have committed such a crime. There was little the captain could do to protect her.

“Captain, over here . . .” Risdar lifted his hand and pointed at the decade-old spider webs that blanketed a throng of trees. “Something lingers there in the shadows.”

“’Tis something evil,” Legolas added, reaching for his bow.

Prestalos clutched his sword. “Careful,” he breathed quietly, his eyes conversing silently with Legolas’ blue ones. Legolas and Risdar both nodded, rounding on each other, and then took up arms. “Whatever lurks in the darkness has teeth as sharp as claws and eyes that discern us. But fear it not, today we shall see to its end. On three, mellyn. One . . . two . . . _three_!”

The soldiers pivoted, but what they saw caused their breaths to hitch in their throats. Yellow eyes shone hungrily through the darkness, and were latched firmly onto the elves as if they were a free meal derelict by its paws.

Instincts got a hold of them. Legolas immediately fired an arrow at the masked beast, but it merely tilted its head to the side and the arrow missed it by a hair. Then it snapped its jaw in warning, spraying a mixture of blood and saliva through the air; whatever creature it'd been feasting on prior, its remains were now dribbling down its neck like blood from a gaping wound.

It was a Warg – and between it there stood the faint outline of the captain’s burden.

Elentári.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How awesome is this painting of a LOTR Warg? This is how I visualise the Warg, only his eyes are like fire ^_^.


	2. The Demon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The soldiers are attacked by a monstrous Warg. Prestalos is injured. Thranduil isn't too happy about it. And as always Elentári only makes things worse.

 

Prestalos was injured. Badly. And the blood was pouring out fast.

But it was his own fault. He had acted foolishly. _Impulsively_. Out of pure and utter irrational instincts when he saw his burden trapped beneath the Warg’s claws. He knew that. He fled before the beast quicker than Legolas pulled out an arrow, and now he was paying for it.

 _Fool of an elf_ , he growled to himself, as he glared at the gaping wound covering his entire left thigh. But Prestalos hadn’t the time to fret over it. He ordered Legolas to mount the beast from behind, while Risdar attacked from the front and Prestalos seized Elentári.

But the Warg was huge, _colossal_ , and was clad in black mail unwilling to be sundered by elven arrows. They merely bounced off the beast and shot into the trees, practically laughing at the elves.

“What type of witchery is this?” Legolas exclaimed, pushing his feet into the hollow rocks behind him. In one swift movement he had swung himself around and clung to the pelt of fur visible down the Warg’s back. But this only angered the Warg even more. Its short muzzle, fashioned with a myriad of silver fangs, snapped the air savagely trying to latch onto the prince.

And one thing was for certain – the Warg didn’t take kindly to its new rider.

It began to buck furiously, like a demented horse, but with the soldiers gaining in on it, Prestalos at its heel, the Warg struggled. It twirled fruitlessly in circles, teeth gnashing at random intervals, before at last its victory prevailed; and Legolas went soaring into the contorted trees.

Then the Warg faced Risdar, who’d just fired an arrow at its neck, and its yellow eyes shone through the darkness like stars slashing through the trees. Now arrowless, the soldier quickly reached for the blade strapped to his leg, not once parting his eyes from the beast.

But in an instant, the Warg was gone; disappearing from the elves’ sight like a rift upon the sea. It had crushed its dewclaws into the sickly moss, and pounced upward; vanishing from the glade and into the shadows above.

At first, the elves thought it had surrendered. They turned on their heels and stood back-to-back to each other, their eyes piercing through the darkness, panting in silence. Droplets of snow fell around them and clung to their hair and clothes. Birds fluttered in the trees. Insects crawled on branches. Then the beast reappeared again; bursting through the spider webs in a cloak of darkness, and lunged onto Risdar, throwing Legolas to the side. Yet fearless at the best of times, Risdar merely laughed in the Warg’s face as he separated its fangs with the use of his blade.

But without his bow he knew he wouldn’t last long.

A killing blow to his neck soon ripped the air from his lungs, and for a moment Risdar saw death coming. His blade was torn from his hands like a bird snatching its prey from the ground, and went spiralling into the trees.

Now he was thoroughly unarmed, and the Warg’s face convulsed into a smile knowingly; its whiskers shining in the moonlight bleeding through the woods. It took a leisurely step forward, and its putrid saliva dribbled from its mouth and down the archer’s brow, seeping into his Woodland armour. But then Legolas grabbed onto the Warg’s tail in a fit of rage, almost the length of his entire body, and arced his back like a wild animal as he finally harnessed onto its hind.

Meanwhile, Prestalos had ripped the Warg’s den of its fell coverings from behind and grabbed Elentári by the scruff of her neck. He secured her high within the shadowy trees, then turned around only to witness Legolas soaring onto his back, while the Warg bit down hard on Risdar’s shoulder.

The archer yelped, but it was soon followed by an abrupt laugh as Prestalos raced towards them, his sword illuminated in beads of gold above his head.

Then a scream split through the forest, causing the Warg to stop still in its tracks. The archer’s bow, drooping listlessly from between its fangs, fell to the ground. Its paws stopped their clawing, teeth stopped gnashing, and it pounced off the archer as if under order.

The elves, too, had stopped their fighting; and all was silent within the glade apart the sound of their breathing, and remnants of Elentári’s scream.

The captain stepped forward, but what happened next profoundly confused the elves. The Warg had capitulated. It bowed its head low in defeat, before absconding into the shadows like a spider unto its nest.

Legolas, however, didn’t stop there. He fired another arrow at the beast and then went barreling after it; so followed Risdar, or at least _tried_ to, but Prestalos bid him to stay down since he was, after all, a wounded cause.

At any rate, the speed the Warg was going there was no way Legolas would catch up with it.

The captain sighed in exasperation, before he swung around and tugged Elentári down from the bracken. She landed gracelessly to the ground with a loud thud, and for a moment she lay there, with her head bowed, before finally dragging herself up.

Her eyes, however, were like two sapphire pools glaring up at the captain. Yet as fierce as they were, tears ran quickly down her cheeks in a great torrent, and she pleaded to Prestalos that the Warg, apparently, was not what he thought it was. That she knew better. That she could _explain_.

But Prestalos could not bring himself to heed her. He was angry, and sore, and wounded by her betrayal – by the Gods he wanted to hit something! He wanted to hit _her_! To tear the Warg’s neck from its monstrous shoulders and toss it into The Great River.

“What have you _done_?” Prestalos thundered at last, his voice shaking the leaves in their pockets above. “Too long have I withstood, and defended, your reckless nature – but enough is enough! Not only have you wounded my best archer, but _this_ ,” he glared down at his own wound, “is because of you and your _treachery_!”

Sweat trickled down the captain’s spine, and his wound ached through every muscle in his body. Unable to stand a moment longer, Prestalos collapsed to his knees and angrily tore at his cape. He tied the material around his thigh and then ordered Risdar to do the same, but still the blood seeped right through it.

“Tears will do you no good,” Legolas snarled at Elentári as he approached through the trees. His armour was torn badly around his neck and shoulders. “You have betrayed your kingdom. Your king. My _father_. Tears will not save you from his wrath. Not this time.”

Elentári sobbed into her hands again. Prestalos tore his gaze from her.

After everything he’d done – _was_ doing for her, and she was secretly hiding their enemy? The one law in Mirkwood that was punishable by death. He couldn’t believe it. Or rather, he could. He just didn’t _want_ to.

“All things considered,” Risdar grumbled as he tightened his gold cape clumsily around his shoulder, “at least it explains the saddle we found on the orcs.” From a distance, the archer’s blonde hair, wet with blood and soil, looked redder than the captain’s. “And all the teeth marks riddled on their bodies . . . They must have been seeking the Warg’s allegiance to infiltrate the Wilderlands. It’s the only possible explanation, if you think about it.” Risdar sighed and tied his cape in a knot around his arm. Legolas, however, continued to glare at Elentári from across the clearing, his eyes slicing through her like a bed of daggers. “But what it does not explain,” Risdar continued, “is why she was with it in the first place, and just why it seemed to be guarding _her_ , of all things.”

A silence followed, during which Prestalos scrutinised the shaken form of his burden. She was perched unmoving beneath the shadow of a Rowan tree, but her shoulders were slumped, and her deep blue eyes were cast downwards as her long, ebony hair curtained the side of her face. Her white gown was tarnished with black soil and blood.

Prestalos could tell by her stance that she was frightened. Ashamed, yes, but frightened all the same. He’d looked after her since she was an elfling, he knew her better than anyone, but now . . . he wasn’t so sure.

Disgust tore at his heart as he glared down at his still-bleeding wound. A great pang of resentment followed, and it settled in the pit of his stomach, making him want to vomit.

“I – I didn’t – didn’t mean to . . .” Elentári’s voice came out only in strangled sobs. “This wasn’t w-what I . . .”

“Save it for the king, traitor!” Legolas silenced her. “He shall be the one to thoroughly avenge your treason, you can be sure of that.”

And with that, the elves trudged back through the woods; all the while Elentári sobbed into her hair and Prestalos limped behind her.

It did beg the question, though. _Why_ had the Warg been protecting Elentári? And just who, exactly, had been the enemy back there?

* * *

Spider webs became few and far between the closer they got to Mirkwood. _Thankfully_. But the walk back home felt much longer than it did on the way there. Still, the vines and webs that polluted the trees seemed to lessen with every step. The last thing the elves wanted to encounter was more wretched Orcs, especially since they were a day late back to the realm.

The path painted ahead of them suddenly thinned, and the elves knew that soon they'd have to board the trees. They were nearing the halfway point, where they’d left Faron and his subordinate a few days ago. The only good thing about this was that the horses (if they hadn’t been captured, that was, or eaten) wouldn’t be too far ahead of the pond, and the thought of which offered them the strength to keep on walking.

Since Elentári was proved a traitor, nobody dared to speak with her. Not even Prestalos, who’d always succumbed to her sobbing after a mere few minutes.

But not this time.

Unless the explanation Elentári had to offer the king was of value, then all that waited for Elentári (and the captain) was more of the king’s wrath. Treachery among Woodelves was unforgivable.

Prestalos couldn’t understand why she’d done it in the first place. Why did she hide the enemy from them? A Demon Warg, at that; a monster five times the size of a normal Warg, which were ruthless at the best of times.

What reason had she to treat with such filthy creatures?

Prestalos had no idea. But with every step through the woods the pain in his leg worsened, and slowly a heat began to consume him, swallowing up his train of thoughts.

Eagerly, yet foolishly, he pushed himself onward until at last they reclaimed their horses – which were thankfully alive and indeed very pleased to see them.

Prestalos lifted Elentári up onto his horse and hazily dragged himself behind her. From that moment on, everything else was a blur. He could scarcely recall the remainder of the journey, save from faint movements stirring in the woods around him. Pointless details plaguing his mind. Elentári’s hair swishing into his face, Legolas mumbling to Risdar about things he was unable to fathom over the tinnitus in his ears.

His body, trapped in an icy-sweat of exhaustion, slouched unwittingly against Elentári’s; and wisps of snow floated through the air like specks of dust, catching in his star-like eyes.

He was vaguely aware of them passing the Elven Gate or the river that led to their realm. All he could remember was the ache in his thigh growing hotter by the second, and then the he awoke in the infirmary two days later.

“You have been reckless these past nights, captain.”

At first, Prestalos thought it was Thranduil sitting by the hospital bed. But then he realised how stupid of an idea that was, and soon discovered it was his adoptive father, Aldaríon of the High Council. He smiled over at Prestalos, and the red lanterns hanging from the low ceiling bathed him in a crimson hue, flickering in his forest-green eyes.

“I always wondered to myself what it would take to wound a Fangorn Elf. It would seem, my son, that a poisonous blow from a Demon Warg is one way to do the trick.”

Prestalos smiled faintly and turned to his father, whose hair had grown remarkably silver over the past years. “I have the luck of the Valar yet, adar, for death has come for me not . . . despite your wagering.”

Aldaríon shifted nervously on the stool, no longer smiling. “Well, I hope what you say is true in the coming hours. Elentári’s hearing is at tomorrow’s noon and I have been told that you may see it fit to attend, though I myself shall not be there. I must say, however, what is forthcoming shall be pleasant not, my son, and I fear you should prepare yourself for the worst.”

With a gentle clap on his son’s shoulder, Aldaríon left the infirmary, and Prestalos turned around on the bed. Only at that exact moment, Legolas and Faron sauntered into the room, and stood at the foot of the captain’s bed with huge grins plastered onto their faces. Faron, however, held onto an orange box of freshly baked honey-cakes.

“We came to wish you well, captain.” Legolas smiled at Prestalos, who weakly returned the gesture. “And prove to Lieutenant Faron that I had not killed you.”

“Three moonrises, you said! But it shall not come to that, you said . . . Next thing I hear, Risdar and your lucky-fine-self are holed up in the infirmary with deadly and fell lacerations! How’s that for a mid-day delight?”

Risdar groaned from the bed next to them, and only then did they realise he was in the same room as them.

“Faron, leave us be,” Risdar groaned, fanning a dramatically limp hand back and forth from his hospital bed. “We are too weak to withstand your whining, at such an hour on such a morning, lieutenant.”

Faron’s eyes widened, and he marched over to Risdar and cuffed him on the side of his head. “As ill as you are I will sooner cut the tongue from your thankless mouth than abide such needless maundering! Now get some more rest, and be rid of this disease come tomorrow morning. We have training, you hear me, in the fourth valley against Feren and his company, and I’d rather die than see my brother surpass my impeccable and faultless leadership skills. So, report for duty when your legs can carry you. If you do not then just remember . . . I know which cave you dwell in.”

Faron saluted the captain and then stomped out of the infirmary. Legolas sat down onto the stool that Aldaríon had occupied, and shook his head.

“He has been like that all morning,” he whispered to Prestalos, reaching for the jug of water abandoned by his bedside. “Like an elleth who recently discovered that her husband had fallen ill in battle. Water, captain?”

Prestalos nodded and took the proffered goblet. His body still felt weak, but he could feel the disease slowly leaving his body like a wound being rinsed of its poison. Thank the Valar for Elvish medicine, thought Prestalos hazily.

Then he lay back in the bed, and after a while Legolas left him, and Prestalos fell asleep to the sound of Risdar’s whining.

Yet some hours later, in the midst of his slumber, Prestalos awoke in a daze, and though the room was dark and silent, he could’ve sworn he saw the king standing by his bed. A phantom robed in midnight-blue, long, blonde hair tickling the captain’s nose as it leaned forward and kissed his forehead.

Prestalos had gasped Thranduil’s name, as if rising ashore for air, but soon the phantom was gone, vanished, and Prestalos collapsed into a dreamless sleep.

* * *

The next morning saw Prestalos fit to attend the hearing, but before he departed from the infirmary entirely, Feren dumped his burden at the side of his hospital bed.

“King Thranduil wishes to see her,” he announced, gently shoving Elentári forward. Her eyes were hell bent on staying glued to the floor, though, and refused to meet the captain’s gaze. Something they were both masterful at.

“Does he wish to see me, too?” Prestalos asked politely, though it felt like razors on his tongue. He looked up at Feren, and was thankful that he had different-coloured eyes and hair from his brother. It would’ve made it impossible to tell them apart otherwise. Feren had the straight, caramel hair; whereas Faron's had more of a silver-blonde hue, just like . . . Thranduil's.

Feren gave a tight nod of his head and then left the infirmary.

When he was gone, Prestalos slowly stood up from the bed, slung his cape over his shoulder and walked towards the door, bidding farewell to the other patients.

Then the nurse who’d been treating his wound caught onto his arm, and bid him to return by nightfall, for his wound hadn’t fully healed just yet and would need more treatment.

Prestalos nodded his head, but made no promises, and then Elentári followed him; her stomach grumbling with every step.

“I take it you have not yet eaten?” Prestalos rumbled, though his voice was considerably softer than it had been in the woods. Elentári shook her head.

Prestalos sighed and rummaged through his pockets. He brought out some leftover lembas from his journey and handed it to her.

“Quickly, as you cannot eat in front of the king.”

Elentári, solemn just seconds before, suddenly brightened and she began eating the lembas as it she hadn't eaten in days. It occurred to Prestalos that she probably hadn't.

The rest of the walk to the king’s chamber was in silence, and unnerving. For the halls around them were eerily quiet, devoid of the Woodelves singing in their caves or dancing on the balconies and treetops. Even the birds that could normally be heard singing among the stone halls had been silenced. It was almost as if an invisible veil had been draped around the kingdom, bringing all its inhabitants to a premature stillness.

Prestalos didn’t like it. It made him feel uneasy. On-edge. Like when a cat catches hint of something evil, or when a dog unveils something fell and dark.

Some steps up the oldest birch in the realm saw them outside the king’s chamber. Prestalos knocked on the gold-laden door, but after a moment there was still no answer. Prestalos narrowed his eyes and went to knock again, but then Thranduil stood in the doorway, robed in his morning gowns, and ordered Elentári to enter . . . alone.

“I bid you three days sanction to search for your burden. Care to explain to me why it took your _four days_ to complete such a simple instruction?”

Prestalos cleared his throat, nervously looking into the king’s eyes. “Your Majesty, I have returned Elentári to you as requested.”

“Indeed. The burden who cowers so spinelessly within your shadow.” Thranduil glared at Elentári hiding behind the captain. “You, come hither to my study ere I lock you in the dungeons myself. Your precious captain cannot save you now.”

And with that, Elentári was dragged into the king’s chamber and the door slammed shut in the captain’s face.

* * *

When at last Elentári’s hearing had arrived, Thranduil was in a foul mood. Everyone in the realm knew that.

“Elentári Lantwen, you have been brought forth to the Council of Mirkwood for high treason.” Thranduil’s voice was deeper than usual; colder and more succinct. “You would do well not to hinder me any longer, child. Speak now and hasten with your justifications. Tell the council of what you informed me of in my study.”

Elentári flinched and looked up at the king. She was sat on a chair in the middle of the courtroom, completely alone. At the front of the panel there glared a very sullen Prince of Mirkwood, grim below his father’s throne. Adjacent to them was the Chief Adviser of Mirkwood and his counsellors, who were brought forth from the Woodland Realm to discuss the penalty of her treason. Neither of them looked very happy to be there, especially Prestalos, who stood rigid behind her.

She knew that her first sentences uttered to the panel would be the hardest. They would either win or lose her audience. She thought long on what to say first, but the only thing that came to her was ‘the beginning.’

“The Great Warg was wounded when I found him in the woods.” Elentári faced the council and held her head high, though a semblance of fear shone briefly on her face. “By treating his injuries I saved his life, and in return he told me of what is to fall upon our lands. His name was Uial and he told me that war is upon us. That a darkness like we’ve never seen before is to fall upon our lands, go abroad our seas and crush our peoples. And he said that there will be nothing we can do to stop it . . . only death.”

Legolas scoffed from across the room. “How are we to know what the elfling speaks of is in truth, unless we capture the Warg ourselves?”

“Legolas, let her _speak_.” Thranduil glared down at his son, then fixed his gaze upon Elentári. He waved a limp hand for her to continue.

“Every night I would go to the beast and feed him, Your Majesty, and clean the wounds that he’d gained from the Orc-bands. He was greatly malnourished, and weakened, thus would’ve died if it were not for me. Yet every night I went to him and every night he spoke to me in our tongue that I was to return to Mirkwood, and that . . .” She watched the king’s eyes bore deeper into her skull, while the prince’s expression softened, if just a little. “I was to leave before _this_ happened. But I saw a wisp of flame alone in the dark, and I sought it. Forgive me, for I clutched at it. Nurtured and concealed it because I hoped for the beast to inform us of our enemy’s plans. It was an open gate to the other side, Your Majesty, an inside-link to Mordor itself.

“I was not scared of the beast, and neither was he of me. Too much blood has been spilled on Middle-earth, and Uial grieves dearly for it. We, too, have become too quick to eradicate our foes instead of seeking information from them first. That I understand, for in the world that we now live in we have grown wary by its troubles, but I saw hope in the Warg, and after a long, long time he told me great things. Terrifying, horrible things, about the atrocities committed by Isengard and its spawns. But mainly, he told me this, and it’s that war is upon us and we cannot stop, nor can we hide or surpass it.” She looked directly at Legolas. “Not this time.”

A silence fell upon the hall, during which Elentári had glanced back fleetingly at Prestalos. His face was as blank as ever.

“This Warg,” the king drawled, “what was its name?”

“Uial, Your Majesty, like the twilight river by the banks of Mirkwood. He was bred in Isengard with fell creatures alike, giving birth to a new race by the White Hand of Saruman. He was the Chieftain Wolf of the Demon Wargs, but unlike so many of his kind . . . the wolf refused to conform to The White Wizard, and slay anything in his path.”

“A wolf, you say?” questioned one of the advisers tersely. Elentári faced him and nodded. He wore a dark-green cape embedded with silver-blue leaves, and his blonde hair shadowed the side of his face like a mask; though a gold eye patch could be seen peeking through. Elentári gulped, but held her gaze. “Interesting, for a moment ago you described it as being a Warg. Wolves are very different creatures from the Wargs of Isengard, dear child.”

“It was no Warg, Chief Councillors! It was possessed by the servant of Sauron, almost thrice the size of me with teeth and paws the length of my arms. It was cursed, indeed, by the White Hand of Saruman, and I fear that long may they follow. They have infected two of my companions, one of whom stands before you right now.” Legolas stepped into the spot-light, and pointed towards the captain. “Prestalos Séregon, the Captain of the Woodland Realm, poisoned by the black fangs infected with the fire of _Mordor_.”

Elentári did not protest Legolas, for what he spoke of was in truth, but regarded that Thranduil’s face paled significantly when she mentioned the captain.

“As far as I am concerned,” Thranduil projected over his son’s voice, regaining his composure, “you betrayed me and my kingdom.”

This time, the king wasn’t even looking at Elentári when he spoke. He stared directly over her shoulders and at the captain.

“And you will pay dearly for it. Yet,” –he returned his eyes to the accused– “you have brought me invaluable information to which I will discuss further with my councilors. However, you Elentári, are hereby confined to your chambers and forbidden to leave its walls until I see fit. Feren, you will see this elleth does not escape. Now be gone, lest you anger me even more.”

The courtroom emptied immediately. The captain, however, stayed behind.

Now it was his turn to be punished.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now it's time for the captain's punishment (dun dun dun!) which can only mean one thing - sexy time, and plenty of it. 
> 
> Also, Demon Wargs are my own variation of Tolkien's Wargs. Imagine the pale Warg in The Hobbit. Now imagine it five times the size of that. Yeah. Pretty huge, right? If you liked it then please let me know :-) 
> 
> Oh and this second painting was also painted by my friend Jay. His work is amazing! You can check him out here:http://jay-carpenter.deviantart.com/ (from R to L, we have: Prestalos, Thranduil, Risdar, Faron and Elentari.)


	3. The Punishment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's time for the captain's punishment, but little does Thranduil know of what his rage will summon.

Thranduil was shaken. Although Prestalos could not see it from where he stood, his eyes were ablaze with fear. But you’d never have known it just by looking at him. His face gave nothing away.

“Go.” Thranduil’s voice came out as a thick rasp, startling the captain. “I will deal with you later, until then you are relieved of your duty.”

Thranduil stood up and disappeared through a wooden archway. Some steps later saw him enter a windowless library where red lanterns hung dimly from the ceiling. Forgotten parchments littered the floor. Bookshelves lacing the walls caused shadows to dance across the room, but Thranduil was not there for the books or parchments. It was the oval-shaped mirror glistening atop a dark-wooden throne that caught his attention.

Thranduil approached it gracefully, though his muscles convulsed with every step. His feet stopped just short of the mirror, and his eyes shut tight. His breathing hardened. Shallow, but fast, until eventually he reopened his eyes. 

But what he saw was not the King of Mirkwood. The entire left side of his face had shed from Thranduil's skin like melted snow. Blood seeped through his pores. Scarred tissue overrode his delicate features and his left eye, utterly spent, moved rapidly searching for the light; but alas it found only darkness.

Darkness.

Thranduil could feel it creeping over his shoulders, like a sleepless malice seeping into his heart. Bile rose in his stomach. His breath hitched again. Elentári’s words dawning on him.

If what she said was true then never had Mirkwood escaped the fires of Mordor. Their freedom had simply been an illusion. A ruse. A layer of false hope.

No!

Thranduil’s hands shot to his throat and he grasped tightly, trying to loosen his breath, but the knot was constricting it like an unshakable vice; and soon the illusions were upon him. Orcs began to appear; clawing and grasping at Thranduil’s robes. Fire surrounded him. Dragons swooped down from the ceiling and snaked across the walls like insects on a corpse. Then the floor cracked beneath his boots and there blossomed a dark hole, which began dragging Thranduil into a sea of red hands.

Orcs. His comrades. His father. They were all clinging to him, nails and teeth all tearing into his flesh, begging for death, to be freed of unending torment.

But I have come so far!  
  
He had suffered – by Eru had Thranduil suffered – but his fear was long conquered. He could not . . . allow this . . . to happen! Could not allow the darkness to corrode him! Not like this. Not now, of all times, please not now!

His hands grasped at the mirror, the wall, the throne, trying to evade the sea of hands, but the darkness only dragged him deeper; the hands stronger around his neck. His struggle was in vain. Everything was in his mind, which only made things worse. He could not escape it.

This was his punishment. This was what he deserved.

Powerless and weak, Thranduil's fear crippled him from his waist-down, and he found that suddenly he was choking again, clawing frantically at the mirror. Fighting them. Fruitlessly trying to kick them away. But they only tripled and the sea became a cesspit of Orcs all clinging to his legs, dragging him deeper into the resonating abyss as they wept mournfully into his robes.

He could not breathe, or scream; he could see nothing but blackness engulfing his senses, and the fire-drakes slithering across the walls. They were –

“. . . hurt, Your Majesty? Are you injured?” The captain’s voice swam to Thranduil in the dark. Warm hands twined around his body and tried to pull him away from the mirror. “Please, tell me what is wrong?”

“Get – out!” Thranduil hissed through clenched teeth, water pooling in his eyes as he thrust the captain away from him. “Now!”

Footsteps hurried to the door and then the silence was once again. The sound of Thranduil’s gasping soon ripped it as he realised he was holding his breath. He looked into the mirror again, but this time his horror had vanished. It was simply Thranduil. The one before the fire-drake.

But even with the incantation covering his scars, Thranduil still knew of what lurked beneath. While the rest of Middle-earth saw nothing but the beautiful Elvenking perched atop his wooden throne, truly Thranduil was breaking inside. There lived in his heart a still deeper shadow, one which only ever bestowed upon him pain and suffering, and his people knew of it not. Perhaps that was a good thing. Only he was to endure the horror of that night . He was the king after all. It was his duty alone to protect his people, at all times, even if it meant suffering such torment as he had done this night.

Some time passed while Thranduil stood panting in front of the mirror, his shoulders slumped, hands grasping at his father's throne.

_“Never shall fear conquer the Heart of Mirkwood, my son, for as long as you reign; and until then the darkness will know naught, and you shall be free of this torment.”_

Oropher had always known just the right things to say. Whereas, Thranduil . . . all he knew was how to act and talk like a king but fight and fuck like a warrior. The latter was what he knew best. Even when he _tried_ to convince himself otherwise, that the panic-attacks were merely inside his head, it never worked. He was not as tenacious, nor as strong as his father had been.

Thranduil straightened himself up and turned towards the door. Though his legs trembled with every step, the darkness soon left his body like sunlight bursting through the clouds.

The King of Mirkwood had returned and he had better things to be doing with his time.

Like punishing his pet, for one.

**~§~**  
  


There was a draft coming in from the high windows, but Prestalos could not feel it. Silk slithered around his eyes while hands thrust him backwards onto the bed.

“Surely you did not think I would forgive you so easily, nín lavan? You of all people know that is not in my nature.”

Wet lips sought the captain’s ear and gave it a light nibble, causing Prestalos to writhe against the king’s bedding; desperate for more, desperate to be _touched_!

But the king was punishing him and would not permit his release any time soon. Prestalos knew that. He could tell by the ring digging into the base of his cock, sending bolts of pleasure up his shaft with every torturous movement.

“You know how impatient I am. When I want something I get it. Right there and then,” Thranduil purred into his ear, his breath fanning down the captain’s neck. Ghostly hands snaked around his body and grabbed the captain's hardened cock, and despite his eroded pride, Prestalos pushed deeper into his hand; urging for a more dominant, firmer touch, but alas . . . more silk. This time around his wrists and ankles, tying him to the elven bedposts. “But you disobeyed me. You made me wait for what I wanted, for over a week, no less, while you scavenged the woods for your hapless burden.”

“No, I did not – _aahhh_! – injured, Your Majesty . . . I was delayed, but I brought her back just as you ordered me to!”

“And yet the penalty for her treason was quite severe. If I were less like my kin I would have severed her head from her miserable shoulders, but alas I shall stick by my promise unto you, captain, and punish your body instead – just – like – we – agreed.”

The room fell silent. The captain could hear nothing but the wind whispering through the windows and the sound of his tunic drifting across the floor.

Then he _felt_ it. A sudden, scorching pain searing down his back.

“Aarghhh!” Prestalos arced his back and pushed his heels into the slippery sheets, his body awash with fire. The smell of singed hair perfumed the room. A damp cloth slowly grazed his wax-covered skin.

“It seems you have grown used to my punishments. Such a pity.”

Thranduil stepped back from the bed, and tipped the candle above the captain’s delectably exploited body. Prestalos hissed again and pulled desperately at his leather binds.

“Please, no-more! I do not–”

“You do not _what_?” Thranduil breathed against his skin. “You enjoy it, do you not, like the obedient little pet we both know you are and like? Just look at you.” Thranduil gripped the captain’s cock again, and gave it a firm squeeze. “Practically begging for it while lying in a pool of your own sweat and come. You are profoundly shameless, Captain Séregon.”

Prestalos sobbed into the nearest pillow, shame flooding through him; darkness his newfound enemy. _Darkness_. The leather wrapping around his cock, sliding up between his ass cheeks and tying into a firm knot at his navel, was not a new kind of torture.

But the blindfold, the darkness . . . this was new and this he did not like.

“ _Nghhhh_ Please!” the captain begged again, his pride now fully abandoned him. No longer was he the impenetrable soldier and Captain of Woodland Realm. In this position, literally gaping wide open beneath his king’s thighs, how could he be? As soon as he entered the king’s chamber, everything – including his pride – was thrown to the wind. He became shameless. Dirty. Desperate. But this time . . . “ _Enough _!”__

“What is it you do not like, nín lavan? The fact that I am shamelessly exposing your body while my guards watch from shadows? Or the fact that you are _enjoying_ it?” Thranduil’s hand began kneading the captain’s swollen ass cheek, his voice prickling down his spine in waves of vengeful lust. “Or the burning wax I have poured on your skin? Perhaps it is the blindfold. A new kink of mine.” Fingers slipped between the welted flesh and teased at his puckered hole. “Do you not live to _please_ me? To do as I say, when I say it? Was that not our agreement when I took your so-called burden into my kingdom?”

Prestalos ceased his stirring on the bed and his limbs, strained and trembling, felt like jelly beneath the king’s touch.

Yes, it was his fault. The much was a given.

He’d been the one to beg the king to take in the elfling when nobody else would. Prestalos was the one who found her while out hunting a pack of orcs. She’d been abandoned at the brink of The Mirkwood River, not far from a nest of Spiderlings, and right from the get-go he knew he was burdened with her. He ended up calling her Elentári, for when he picked her up wrapped in an Imladris blanket, he saw the Light of the Valar in her eyes, and the stars that shone within them reminded him of their Awakening.

Much to the captain’s surprise, the elleth had taken to him immediately and refused to let go of his legs. But Prestalos could not adopt her.

“I cannot take you,” he had argued incredulously. “Aldaríon will have none of it,” he’d added, but seeing the elfling cry had torn great strings in the captain’s heart, and he sought his king for counsel.

However, Thranduil – the derisory King of the Woodland Realm – would have none of it also.

“And why should _I_ help _you_?” he’d asked the captain.

Prestalos had thought long on his answer, and he knew the second the words left his lips that he’d later live to regret it. “Because in return you will have me, however and whenever you desire it.”

He wasn’t ashamed to admit that he was a beautiful elf. Like his parents had been, Prestalos was a remnant of the Falathrim. Not only was he a mighty soldier, a quick and eager learner with a lithe and agile, tireless body . . . he was also _different_. His eyes were a piercing silver, like two stars forever bright in the night sky, and his long, copper hair was as rare to his kin as was the Ithildin** etched into his back. He was different. And he was the king's.

That night, after Prestalos swore his oath to the king, Elentári’s acceptance was final in Mirkwood; and Prestalos was sworn to the king in body and in soul, however and whenever he desired it. At times such as this, naked and bound tirelessly against his will, Prestalos had to remind himself _why_ he was doing this. Why had he made such an inconceivable oath to the King of Mirkwood in the first place.?

_**~Fifty-two-years prior~** _

_“But – but I do not want to go with the king! I want to stay here . . . in the trees, with you. Can’t we stay here where we can see the sun?”_

_Prestalos had scolded Elentári – or, as he used to call her, Little Elf – and reminded her again that if she wanted to stay alive then she had no choice in the matter. The caves would become her home whether she wanted them to or not._

_But Elentári had point-blank refused._

_She had grabbed onto Prestalos’ legs again, planting him firmly into the spring soil, and refused to let him go. Prestalos had sighed and crouched down to meet her gaze; Elentári released one leg but remained squeezing the other._

_“You must go, Little Elf, for greater things await you in the palace. Caves as endless as the night sky, beds as tender as the clouds above us. Trust me, you will want that tomorrow even if you feel like not today.” Despite his gentle coaxing, Elentári was still unwilling to let go of his leg. She held onto it for dear life, as if letting go was a matter of death over life. “And I will always be here for you, as your true family,” he had added softly, running a hand through her long, ebony hair._

_At that exact moment, Elentári lifted her gaze and her huge cobalt-blue eyes stared up at the captain in silence._

_“We swore an oath, didn’t we?”_

_“Yes,” he smiled at her, raising his hand to reveal the white ribbon tied around his wrist. “And it shall remain so until my very last breath, just like we promised. You are not alone in this world, Elentári. I am here for you, and your parents are too, in spirit and no doubt await you in the Undying Lands for when you are wise and ready to depart. Until then you are burdened with me, I am afraid, and your new adoptive family – who will give you a better life than I ever could." Prestalos had glanced around the shabby little hut in which he'd been sheltering her in. "I will do whatever it takes to for you to get the life you so rightly deserve, Little Elf. As Eru is my witness, I promise you that. ”_

“Look at you,” Thranduil growled into the captain’s ear, ruthlessly twisting a hand into his fiery-red hair. “Even now when you resist me your body tells me otherwise.”

His body . . . it felt strangely hot all of a sudden. In fact, unbearably hot – almost like the Warg’s teeth were still piercing into his flesh. So sore and tender was he upon the king’s sheets that he wanted to scream, to beg Thranduil to stop, but he couldn’t even speak. His mouth felt leaden with words that were unwilling to pour out from his lips.

His limbs quivered beneath the king’s touch. Sweat trickled down his spine. Hands wound around his body, twisting and pulling, and then he felt the great thrust of the king’s cock lunging deep inside him. A whimper escaped from between the captain’s lips, a protest, a sob, but Thranduil took no heed of it. He didn’t even wait for the captain’s body to adjust to the intrusion. He simply thrust again and again until Prestalos could practically feel his gigantic cock hitting the back of his teeth.

“ _Please_ , no-more!” he choked through strangled sobs, barely able to breathe let alone speak. “ _Leithio nin, nín aran*_!”

But Thranduil would not release him. Instead he fastened the captain’s binds even tighter, while stilling his twitching cock deep inside him. Then he began to thrust again, only this time harder. Faster. The heat, the rush of the orgasm building in his loins, Thranduil’s breath on his back, in his ear, it was. . .

_Too much! I . . . I cannot take this anymore!_

After hours of being at the blindfold’s mercy, Prestalos’ body had had enough. He collapsed onto the bed unmoving and, Eru help him, barely even breathing; with blood trickling down the side of his legs, through his bandage and onto the bedding. Then something faint, and white, floated through the air like a lost feather and landed desolately on Thranduil’s shaking lap.

Elentári‘s ribbon had split from the captain's wrist, and was no more.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * = Moon-ink. This is a very rare ink used in Middle-earth. It was mentioned in the Hobbit when Lord Elrond reads the Map of Durin to Thorin (An Unexpected Journey.) Prestalos has a huge tattoo of Ithildin covering his entire back.
> 
> ** = Release me, my king!
> 
> The last painting my friend Jay done for 'I, Captain...' I hope you like it as much as I do! Chapter Four is soon to follow. This is only the beginning of Thranduil's erasable rage.


	4. The Inertia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prestalos has fallen ill with Silver Ivy. Thranduil makes a tough decision, one which he is certain he will hold . . .

How long had Prestalos lain in King Thranduil’s bed for? He had no idea. He could scarcely recall anything other than passing out.

 _Again_.

When eventually he did regain consciousness, he awoke to starlight bleeding through the windows. Soft bedding and blankets surrounded his body in a way like they’d never done before. He could tell by the texture that he wasn’t in his own bed. Of course he wasn't. For unlike then, he felt as if were floating on a sea of clouds; not the usual bed of of nettled-rocks that he was accustomed to.

Prestalos blinked, unmoving, hopelessly trying to _remember_ , but the stars, they were so beautiful . . . so distracting.

They reminded him now of the night the fire swept over Fangorn Forest. During the inferno which slew the last of his kin, Prestalos had lay bleeding upon the highest bough he could find, fire licking around him, creatures weeping as the flames of Morgoth engulfed them. It was at that exact moment, with animals wailing at his feet, did he watch how his friends and loved ones turned to ashes.

In what he imagined to be his last moments alive, Prestalos had looked up at the stars and wept for the first time in his remembrance. He’d lain still, sobbing a lament to his parents’ departure, while tears streamed violently down his ash-covered cheeks.

It was then when Prestalos had prepared himself for death. Accepted, even embraced it. He told himself it was his time to depart. The fire and Mandos Halls were almost upon him . . . And yet, despite all that had happened, he was picked up by a family of Stray Elves. The same ones who later took him to the caves of Mirkwood in the hope that he’d start his life anew. It was actually Thranduil who stumbled upon him that winter’s night, waist deep in snow, hooded and clad in silver robes . . .

“You are awake, then?”

Prestalos started and searched for the voice calling to him in the dark. He half expected it to be Aldaríon again, but this time it wasn’t. Besides, he soon realised that he was not in the infirmary like he had been. He was still in the king’s chamber. In his _bed_ , at that rate

Dim eyes forged the outline of his king perched upon a golden armchair laden with violet and blue night robes. Thranduil stood up from it and approached the bed at a leisurely pace; his violet tunic drifting across the floor like wings as he did so.

The captain winced as he tried to straighten himself up, but Thranduil scolded him and bid him to remain as he was.

“You must rest,” he told Prestalos, his voice unusually quiet. “It would seem that I pushed you beyond your measure last night. Elensar has admonished me so not only an hour past. ‘Rest is imperative’, said he, and rest is what you shall do; lest Elensar wishes me an ill demise.”  

Elensar was the captain's adoptive-fathers' cousin and the kingdom's renowned healer. He'd always been protective over Prestalos and he was also the only elf he knew who could treat a soldiers' wounds while tending to a throng of elflings at the same time.

Despite the king’s stern perusal, Prestalos sat up in the bed anyway. Thranduil lowered himself carefully beside him, then stretched his arm out and reached for the captain’s face. But his hand faltered, shook as if realisation dawned on him, and as an afterthought he clasped them neatly atop his lap.

A silence fell between them. Long and strained. Then Prestalos broke it, though his voice was slightly broken and hoarse . “F-forgive me, my king . . . a-a wound from my past, remnants of its poison still lingers in my blood. It has never . . . really healed.”

Thranduil’s face, if not soft a few moments before, suddenly hardened. “And you tell me this _now_? After I nearly rendered you senseless?” Something cold in the king’s voice told Prestalos that he wasn’t just angry with him, for once. “I want you to sleep and we shall discuss this in the morning. Now go. I have given you an order: lie back down.”

Prestalos smiled and fell back into the dream-like pillows. “This will be the first time you have allowed me to sleep in here, Your Majesty,” he whispered dazedly.

 “I said sleep before I change my mind,” Thranduil rumbled, but then he did something strange. He tucked away a loose strand of the captain’s hair, his fingertips brushing his skin like feathers, and then he began to sing.

Of a song that was no doubt long forgotten, nameless to the world save from Thranduil.

He sang of great sorrow, pain, regret and . . . Prestalos couldn’t remember what else, for soon he was fast asleep and contented beneath the king’s soft caresses.

* * *

Outside on the veranda, Thranduil’s cloak whipped around him in the twilight air. Back and forth he paced the wooden balcony, periodically stopping as if to glare at the moon. Of all the rooms in his kingdom, _this one_ had always been his favourite. His fortress. It was the highest in all of Mirkwood, out of reach from the darkness, and closer to the stars.

Normally, the mere sight of it – the trees and shrubberies, fountains and swings – soothed Thranduil’s rage instantly. But not this time. No such thing was happening.

He marched thunderously back into the bedroom and thrust open the door to his dressing room. Inside, he found his sword and took it back out onto the balcony. A replica of an orc dummy hung listlessly from a tree adorned with white Niphredils. Thranduil glared at it.

Seeing the filth dangling from the beauty of his kingdom, his home, was like the poison streaming through his rivers. It tainted everything in its shadow, and the sight of it roused bile in Thranduil’s stomach. Anger. Disgust. _Pain._

He raised his sword high above his head, his expression one of sheer contempt, and quirked his wrist, sending the sword down at a merciless pace. Straw oozed out from the mute creature. Buttons exploded from its eyes. Again and again Thranduil’s sword came lashing down, to the point where there was nothing left of the dummy but a pool of burlap lying at his feet.

Sweat tricked down his brow . . . his spine . . .  chest pounding, heaving.

Normally, Thranduil would _never_ display his anger in such a way – out here, in the open – for normally he would vent it another way. By teasing and watching his captain squirm and beg beneath his body. But not this time. Prestalos was too weakened. Too many years of being Thranduil’s pet.

His _slave_.

So long had he endured the sexual torment of Thranduil's desires, while also commanding his regiment, that he’d literally torn his body in half.  Or rather, Thranduil had.  

“ _You must remember, my king, that Fangorn Elves are different from our kin. They were separated from elven civilisation for so long that the air and trees of the Ents went entirely to their heads. They no longer have the strength that we do. Nor the vitality.”_

_Thranduil winced, knowing fine well he meant the blood that’d poured from between the captain’s legs when Elensar examined him. Truly, Thranduil’s treatment towards his pet had been callous._

_But if there was anything accusatory in Elensar’s eyes, it was soon gone and he said nothing more of it. He simply did his job; by cleaning the captain’s body and applying salves to bring down his rising temperature._

_Yet nothing seemed to be working. No vial nor potion could rid the captain of his sickly invasion, and sweat piled on each of their bodies in unbidden trepidation. Then a messenger brought forth the tonic Lord Elrond had sent, and after Elensar applied it to the captain’s skin, he ceased his thrashing at once. Or, at least physically he did. But his torment was still fresh in the king’s mind. Thranduil could get rid of his screams and flailing not, no matter how hard he tried to quench it._

_“It would seem that this wound of his has never really healed in the first place, my king. He is a fine captain, warrior **and** elf, but for now rest is imperative. If you want to keep him alive, that is. He’s never had proper treatment, I’m willing to bet, on whatever wound elicited the Silver Ivy. That is why he is reacting so poorly. The wound's opening cannot now be determined, but the poison is in his blood. Nevertheless, it is nothing I am unable to cure. Only with the captain it might take a little longer than it would, let’s say, with you or Aldaríon.”_

_“What do you mean Silver Ivy?” Thranduil murmured, more to himself than anything else, as he squeezed the captain’s ribbon tight within his hands._

_“Do you recall the night he was brought us, by the Vardamirs, if I recall them correctly, that long winter’s night? They’d tried to heal him with their own medicine, but it wasn’t good enough. That’s why they brought him here, to me, and it was I who convinced Aldaríon to adopt him in the first place.” Elensar grinned, applying another antidote to the captain’s neck and shoulders. Probably to keep him cool overnight, thought Thranduil. “He would’ve died if it were not for me. At the hand of something so subliminal, too. It is not very often that I come across an elf who can get sick, but when I do . . .”_

_Elensar didn’t finish his sentence. He didn’t need to. Thranduil knew what he meant._

_Panic._

_The one thing at the forefront of your mind when someone you love gets sick. That’s what Thranduil was doing right at that minute: panicking._

_By the Gods, never had he fretted over something such as this. Something so . . . so normal. Not even when Legolas had nearly severed his leg while hunting in Rhovanion. He maintained his self-control as the King of Mirkwood at all times._

_Now, however, his reactions were becoming questionable. In vacuo. Something that he could not allow to happen. He would have to get a hold of himself, and soon._

_“At any rate, that should be him now. Have him returned to the infirmary as soon as possible, lest we want the poison to return with vengeance.”_

_“Poison?” Thranduil didn’t even realise he was sitting down, not until he felt the sequenced armchair digging into his back. “I thought **that** had all been eradicated? You said that only Silver Ivy remains behind, **not** the Demon Warg’s contagion?” _

_“Well, yes. Almost. But the remains of which are barely noticeable, now that I have seen him and applied Lord Elrond’s antidote. Had it not been for that, the captain would not live to see tomorrow. So be sure to thank the Peredhil most graciously, my king. I’m off now to inquire why the Silver Ivy hadn’t been picked up beforehand. It is not like the infirmary to omit something so colossal.”_

Thranduil had felt weak at the knees, but still he managed to escort Elensar to the door. Now look at him. Here he was, the King of Mirkwood, vehemently crushing the remains of a straw-like Orc for all to see. With every flick and twist of his wrist his sword came crashing down and his crimson cloak whipped around his ankles like claws around his legs.

How could he have been so _unthinking_?  He knew that Prestalos was injured, but . . . he was angry. By Eru was he angry, and he couldn’t stop himself from ramming into him.

His treatment towards his pet had been cruel; he had clearly wanted him to suffer. Wanted him to feel the pain of Thranduil’s breathless-attacks. To drown in the darkness that forever engulfed him; hence why he'd used the blindfold.

Not mention his usual routine, of course; the self-inflicted cock ring, the ropes and leather, the burning-wax, the smell of the captain’s musk on his tongue, tantalising his taste buds with every thrust, every touch and lick and fuck. . .

Even now when he thought of it he became aroused. But for once, the excitement was overshadowed by a great pang of guilt, unbidden, and it tore ruthlessly at his body; reminding Thranduil of what he’d done to him. Of the blood that he had summoned from his body. 

Thranduil stormed back into the bedroom, where Prestalos lay asleep. Carefully, Thranduil sat down beside him and watched the faint rising of his chest. His lips were slightly parted, red hair plastered to his clammy forehead, but his expression was not one of that in deep sleep. It looked tortured. _Pained_. Thranduil closed his eyes and bent down, slowly planting a soft kiss upon the captain’s forehead.

Prestalos did not deserve this. Not a broken king who wanted to bring upon him only wrath and ruin. It was about time Thranduil freed this little bird of his. Let it loose from its wooden cage and soar up into the sky towards the sun. After everything Thranduil had put him through, he could at least give him _that_.

For deep down Thranduil knew that the bird would unconsciously seek the light that which burns him, and find it too blinding; and ere would he return to his master’s arms where it was safe and warm. A pet will _always_ return to its master.

The captain was yet to discover just how deeply rooted were the ties of a master and his pet. Perhaps that’s what Thranduil needed. An unspoken revelation to keep his darkness at bay. Something to which he could cling to and deem so utterly his own. In this case, he needed the captain to admit to whom he served, and to whom he truly loved. Only then would the king evade the Sea of Hands and would sunlight bleed into his life again.

While Prestalos bathed in the wings of his freedom, deep within his cave would Thranduil watch . . . and wait. 

For soon he would return to him, and there would never be another escape again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Silver Ivy is a poison that Prestalos picked up in Fangorn Forest. He caught it the night of the fire when his parents died. It is a disease that slowly eats away at an elf’s body (though sometimes it can take centuries for the deterioration to take place). It was one of the fell creations manufactured by servants of Morgoth. They corrupted ivy with a poison forged in Angband and spread them throughout the woods of Middle-earth. Much to the extent of the elves’ knowledge, Fangorn Forest was riddled with it. (I created it ^_^).

**Author's Note:**

> If you like it, please let me know! More "Thrandalos" sexy-time to follow. 
> 
> Nín lavan = My Animal. This is a shortened version of Thranduil's nickname for Prestalos, the full one is 'nín lavan athan i aear’ meaning “My Animal Beyond The Sea” 
> 
> Fangorn Elves - Fangorn Elves are a desolate race of Elves that took to Fangorn many centuries ago (I created them ^_^) Almost like a cult, they kept primarily to themselves, however outsiders were always welcome. Mostly very solitary though, with their own set of beliefs and morals; however, not many survived the Great Fire of Fangorn Forest, resulting a massive decline in their numbers. Prestalos was one of few who survived.


End file.
